


Opposition

by Poose



Category: Thick of It (UK)
Genre: Angst, Banter, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Married Character, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:54:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <a href="http://ttoi-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/726.html?thread=122582#t122582">For this prompt at the kinkmeme. </a>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opposition

Nicola was lying face down on the bed, trying to work up the energy to remove the top coverlet, which had been replaced despite her objections to the contrary.

She'd tried leaving notes for the staff -- all caps, underlined -- to that effect. Attn: Please! DO NOT PUT THE TOP COVER BACK ON THE BED Thanks!!!!

Nicola had no authority, no respect, no fucking _pull_. Much like her time in government, actually. Stellar, totally bloody stellar. 

"Idiots," she said, turning her head to the side. She'd seen the television programmes where they shone blacklights on covers exactly like this one. _Get up, Nicola. The blanket's infested with bedbugs,_  she told herself,  _or fungus, or sex stains, or something equally disgusting._

Granted, it wasn't the worst thing, staying in the hotel, with the exception of the germs. 

Nicola's shoes lay at the foot of the bed. She was still dressed, still wearing her mascara. And she had to go for a wee. 

What roused her, though, was not the pressure on her bladder, nor the need to apply eye cream...at her age, she simply  _had to..._  -- but the knock, _knocks_ , insistent, on her door. 

Nicola knew she hadn't ordered room service, though she did most nights, anymore, unless they all went out to a restaurant. James would Blackberry and drink too much and she would force smiles and try to block out how much she hated him.  _The fiction of a functional partnership, hardly a marriage, really._

She muttered to the mattress, "Piss off." 

The knocks continued. 

"We don't want any." 

The knocks abated. 

"Hey! Hotel Babylon, I've got your order for six hookers and a kilo of Peruvian coke. Open up!"

Nicola lifted her head.  _Malcolm?_

"Malcolm?" she shouted. 

"Jesus H. Christ, yes, woman, _Malcolm_. Come on, darlin', open the door, " came the muffled response.

Nicola groaned back down into her pillow.

"Seriously, am I meant to stand out here all night like a Jehovah's fucking Witness? I've got some pamphlets in my briefcase that will blow your fucking  _mind_ " 

Malcolm was very much at the top of the list of people she'd like to see fuck off into a hole and die. 

"Fuck off!" 

"Nicola!"

"No," she repeated. Who was she kidding? Malcolm _was_ the fucking list. "Fuck off. Into a hole. And die." 

He rapped on the door. "Fucking just let me in already, would you? The neighbors are going to phone in a domestic." 

"All right, all right. Jesus, fucking--"

She got up, tripping over the shoes as she did so.  _This is merely to shut him up,_  she reasoned. Otherwise the front desk would be alerted, and even though she herself was no longer an MP, totally unimportant, a has-been nine months out of office, well, if Malcolm Tucker was at her door, the same Malcolm Tucker that might very soon be in the nick, well, that would definitely qualify as a  _story_  to one of the many unscrupulous shitstains that called themselves journalists. It would be fucking  _newsworthy._

The door swung inward. He was leaning against the door frame. 

"Malcolm," she said, her voice level, face impassive. With all that had happened, everything he'd done to her, well, it wasn't as if he  _deserved_  a smile, even a fake one.   
  
He was hoarse; sounded like he'd been shouting since six a.m. "Are you going to let us in?"   
  
She turned her back and crossed over to the sofa. The door clicked softly shut. She sat down. The cushions were too low. Malcolm was standing, hands in his coat pockets. He didn't sit, so then she felt stupid, and got back to her feet.   
  
Nicola crossed her arms and let her gaze wander all around the room, avoiding eye contact. The room would tell him everything he needed to know. Malcolm would see the collection of homeopathic tinctures gathered atop the dresser, the mostly devoured giant Toblerone (dark) on the bedside table, her extra bras draped over the back of a chair, over which he now laid his coat.   
  
"Nicola," he said, quietly, "Look at me."   
  
"No," she said. She sounded sour. She  _felt_  sour. "Go on, have it out. Say whatever it is that's so important and then," she gritted her teeth, "get out of my fucking room."   
  
He took a step closer; she squeezed her arms tighter and clenched her jaw so hard that it cracked. Avoiding his stare, glare. Whatever he was about to say, she didn't want to hear it. Sympathy would only make her furious --what did _he_ care about her marriage, her family? -- and he certainly wasn't going to apologize for having single-handedly ruined her career prospects in the most public and humiliating manner possible.   
  
He hesitated. "Right, well, the thing is..." The sentence trailed off.   
  
"You haven't come to gloat, I hope," she spat out. "Because I'm, you know, a very busy woman."   
  
He took another step in her direction. She was backed up against the sofa: there was nowhere else to go.   
  
"I know," he told her. "You've not done half badly." He sounded so soft. Fuck, she hated him. _Hated him._  
  
Nicola narrowed her eyes. "It's all down to Helen, she's done wonders."   
  
"Aye, she has." He was nearly whispering now, and he was far too close for her liking. _I hate you,_ she thought to say.   
  
"Malcolm - " Nicola turned her head, ready to let at him, with all the anger that had carried her this far. Because she'd fucked up, but he'd _fucked her over,_ and even the flighty could still have faith in loyalty.   
  
But when she turned her head the words died in her throat. As a minister she'd feared Malcolm, loathed him, fretted over his presence. And now here he was, not six inches away, and the only thing she could feel was sorrow so strong it reminded her of relief.   
  
"Nicola," he said, raising one slim hand to touch the side of her face.   
  
"You can't say it, can you?" she said. Her laugh was nervous, high-pitched, as it always was.   
  
"Shall I try?"   
  
"If you want."   
  
He licked his lips, paused, and shook his head.   
  
Fuck, but she'd had it with him. "Arsehole."   
  
"Bitch."   
  
"Liar."   
  
"Idiot."   
  
"Criminal."   
  
"Terminal fuck-up."   
  
"Bastard."   
  
"Tedious cunt."   
  
"Malcolm?"   
  
"Yes, pet?"   
  
"What on earth are you doing with your hand?"   
  
"Which hand?"  
  
She gasped. " _That_  one."   
  
His teeth grazed her collarbone before he stepped in to whisper in her ear.   
  
"I'm fucking _apologizing_ , right?"

"I...see." She swallowed hard. Nicola had every right to be furious. of course she did. Malcolm was a criminal, a bastard, a bully. A court of law would no doubt side with her if she kneed him in the bollocks, split him open with a letter opener and left his kidneys on ice in the bathtub. They'd probably give her a standing ovation and a medal of honour. Every knot in her neck over the last five years was down to Malcolm; her miserable relationship with Ella was Malcolm's fault, her loveless marriage was...not.  
  
"How hard is it to say you're sorry?"  
  
He pressed his grey-troused thigh between hers. "Very." His smile was repulsive. God, she _detested_ the man, even if the slight friction of his leg was very possibly the most delicious feeling she'd had in fucking months, spreading warmth all across her... _root chakra?_  
  
"It wasn't meant to be a pun, Malcolm." Nicola needed to push him away, immediately.   
  
"Of course not," he said, nuzzling her neck. "But it's fucking true." And she felt him, stupid, hard, exciting, _new._  
  
Nicola felt her cheeks redden with a new feeling of embarrasment, more pleasurable than the usual one.  _Sod it,_  she thought.  _He could be in custody come morning._  
  
"Did I do that?" she asked, cupping him through his trousers.   
  
Now it was his turn to look taken aback. "Aye," he said, pulling away to look at her.   
  
"And you're sorry?" He nodded, at least playing at being contrite.   
  
Nicola wriggled closer and fitted her hands around his backside, under the flap of his suit jacket. "Fucking kiss me then," she told him, amazed at her own audacity.   
  
He scrunched up his face.  _Was that an actual smile?_   _God, he felt good. Warmer than she'd imagined, when she'd allowed herself to imagine it._

She'd been the one to leave, finally, and James could hardly believe it. If she'd been in the public eye that wouldn't have happened, in all actuality. Perhaps she owed Malcolm a bit of thanks, for sending her on her way.   
  
But that could wait for later, because Malcolm seemed to have gathered his courage, and - licking his lips once more - angled her face up to his and kissed her, shyly, almost, at first, and then, as her hands gripped his arse more tightly, the kiss grew stronger as well.   
  
Malcolm tasted of mandarin oranges, and peppermint, and coffee. And he was so close to her,  _holding her_  and fisting a hand in the back of her hair as their mouths opened and his tongue sought hers.   
  
When they went from standing upright to being on the sofa, she could not say. It was some time after he had untucked her shirt from her skirt and put a hand up her bra, as they snogged like teenagers. She, in turn, had left a bite mark on his neck whilst untying his tie.   
  
His hands were all over her, under her clothes, surprisingly soft, nimble as she'd known they'd be. His jacket lay crumpled on the floor, and most of his shirt buttons were undone. His hands were up her skirt, running up and down the backs of her thighs, and all the while they were kissing. They couldn't fucking  _stop_  kissing until Malcolm broke away.   
  
His voice was ragged when he spoke. "Lie down," he said, and as he helped her onto her back the bottom dropped out of her stomach, like claustrophobia or a panic attack but somehow --  _nice?_  
  
"All right?" he asked, and she clapped her hands over her face but nodded yes all the same. When was the last time James had done... _that_  - her brain supplied. It'd been _years_ since he'd crouched between her thighs and rolled the tops of her tights down, and  _good fucking Lord_  he'd never trailed kisses across them like Malcolm was doing now.   
  
Nicola threw an arm across her face, unable to look, desperate to see.   
  
Malcolm pushed her tights down and held her knickers to one side. She squirmed as he touched her, blushed from her hairline to her pelvis when she realized he was looking her over, appraising. His hands slid under her arse as he brought her closer to his mouth. At first she flinched -- it tickled, and it had been  _so long_  and then --  
  
"Fucking hell." His hair was soft, too, as she scratched at his scalp with her fingers, tracing down the sides of his cheeks to feel where his mouth met her skin.   
  
"Christ, Malcolm," she breathed, over and over, "Fucking _Christ_." 

Nicola giggled, quivered, shuddered, came. Malcolm pulled back, blew cool air between her legs, teased her with his breath, mouthed across her until she was nearly there once more. When she spoke, her voice seemed to come from a far-off distant place in her chest.   
  
"Get up here," she said, tugging on the top of his head. "I want you to fuck me." And she did want him, more than she'd wanted anything: more than government, leadership, the Fourth Sector, a happy marriage, to be able to do plow pose without somersaulting backwards....  
  
Malcolm groaned, heaving himself up to press his lips to hers once more. His hands never left her body, even as he patted down his trouser pocket for a condom.   
  
And from that point on, it was a race to find pleasure before the moment passed, before they looked at one another and thought  _oh bloody fuck what have I done?_  before she could remember that she  _detested_  Malcolm, before he felt compelled to tell her she was a taxpayer funded waste of carbon molecules.   
  
A packet, a quickly undone belt. Two pairs of trembling hands, confusion, slight slickness, unfamiliar but not unpleasant pain.   
  
Nicola came first, digging her nails into the thin skin of Malcolm's back, nearly rocking them off the sofa with the force of it. In her ear he breathed heavily; her own pleasure verified --  
  
 _"Did you?"_ he asked.   
  
"Yes." Lord yes, _had she_. Malcolm closed his eyes, then, and shuddered inside of her, a soft stream of mumbled curses on his lips.   
  
As they lay there, entwined on the suddenly-too-small sofa, Nicola felt the familiar waves of worry wash over her again. She shifted beneath Malcolm, who seemed suddenly quite  _heavy_  and made as if to sit up. Malcolm's green eyes blinked open.   
  
"Don't get up, darlin'," he said, pulling her closer to him. "Stay fucking still for two seconds, all right?"   
  
When Nicola didn't answer, he repeated himself.   
  
"All fucking right?"   
  
Nicola put her head against where his heart would have been, if he'd had one.   
  
"Okay," she said, "I'll stay."


End file.
